


Cup of Bitterness: First Meeting

by Tanaqui



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: Birth, Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-01
Updated: 2005-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:54:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanaqui/pseuds/Tanaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stir not the bitterness in the cup that I mixed for myself" - The Siege of Gondor, Bk 5, Ch 4, Lord of the Rings</p><p>The events surrounding the birth of Denethor's second son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cup of Bitterness: First Meeting

Denethor hurried along the corridor, trying to shake his annoyance that the Council had lasted so long after he had received the message from his wife. Yet on reaching the door to the bedchamber, he paused. His moment of hesitation — was he _nervous?_ — surprised him, since the messenger had assured him all was well. A little irritated at his foolishness, he quietly pushed open the door.

Women were moving around the edges of the room, but he took no notice of them. All his attention was fixed on Finduilas, propped up in bed. Her dark hair was spread loosely across her shoulders and her skin glowed. He had a moment to admire her quiet loveliness before she raised her head and caught sight of him. Her tired expression fell away, and her lips curved in a smile, while her grey eyes sparkled with happiness. Denethor wondered, as he crossed to her side, if she had ever looked more beautiful.

She held out her hand to him and he took it as he perched on the bed. "You are well?" he asked. He had not seen her for many hours.

"I am." The look she gave him was weary yet happy. He would have taken her travails for his own if he could; that she had suffered willingly in such a noble cause only made him more conscious of how precious she was to him.

She freed her fingers from his, then, and turned from him to dip into the crib placed next to the bed. She set the bundle into his grasp. He had forgotten how very small it would be.

"My Lord, may I present your second son to you?"

Denethor cradled the child gently in his hands. The boy's face still had a flushed, wrinkled look under its shock of dark hair. His tiny fingers flexed and then closed tight again. He gave what seemed to Denethor to be a deep contented sigh, apparently secure in his father's protective grip.

Denethor simply stared at him in wonder for a while. _A second son._ Few noblemen in Gondor in these days were blessed with large families and boys were rare, though Gondor had need of sons as never before. While Denethor's father might encourage all men of worth from near and far to enter Gondor's service, Denethor felt a warm glow of pride that one day the House of Húrin would be able to offer its land _two_ fine men.

His son stirred and opened his eyes. For a moment, the palest blue gaze, so like Boromir's had been and no doubt also fated to fade to grey, fixed on his father. Then it wandered away, still not properly focused.

Denethor looked up at his wife and smiled. She had given him another jewel. Never had she seemed lovelier to him. Never had he felt more blessed.

He laid the boy gently back in the crib, which had once also housed Boromir, and moved it aside a few inches so he could sit between his son and his wife. He put his arm around Finduilas's shoulders and dropped a kiss on her forehead.

"Thank you, my love."

She accepted the embrace with a soft, tired sigh, settling her warm bulk against him as he leaned back on the pillows next to her. He allowed himself to relax a little, contemplating his good fortune. His wife had come through her confinement safely: he had never quite shaken the fear that had clutched his heart five years earlier when news came of the death of the Queen of Rohan while bearing an heir to King Théoden. He had looked up from the dispatch to see Finduilas, heavy and slow, pacing in the garden as she waited for the heir of Gondor to arrive. Now Denethor had two strong sons to follow him, with the hope of more children: a daughter next would please him.

The council, too, despite its tedious length, had brought good news. Things were quieter in Ithilien than they had been for years, while the Corsairs still seemed hamstrung by the raid on Umbar nearly four years before. A raid, Denethor recalled, that had also brought him the relief of the departure of that upstart captain. He tensed a little as he remembered how easily Thorongil had seemed to win the hearts of men. Then he let his anger flow away, as he reminded himself that his rival was many years gone. The Council had gladly accepted Denethor's rule when his father had suffered his first bout of sickness two years ago; and with each of Ecthelion's subsequent relapses, the Council had proved more and more willing to allow Denethor to order things as he would. Now he ruled in all but name, with neither challenge nor opposition, while they waited for the sad news of his father's last breaths.

He knew it was in his nature to command men, to have the strength of mind to make those choices others flinched from, though he had never sought position or glory for its own sake, but so that he might serve. He glanced across at the crib. _We of the House of the Ruling Stewards should not expect honours because of an accident of birth. Let my sons learn through diligence and effort of the wisdom and the strength that will give them the right to rule. As it was for me._ Yet Denethor knew that the place he would best serve he could not earn, and it would come only through death. _Long years I have waited and now the hour is at hand, coming both too slow and too fast, and I no longer know if I wish for it or fear it. At least Father will have a chance to know of this fine addition to the House of Húrin before the end._

At that thought, Denethor roused himself. "I will show my father the latest treasure we have to add to our collection," he said. "Artamir," he added softly, glancing over at his son. _The exalted jewel._

He felt Finduilas stir. "I thought we had not yet decided on a name," she said. He heard a note of anxiety in her voice. He held her away from him a little so that he could look down into her face, where faint worry lines creased her brow.

 _Why does she dispute this?_ he wondered. They had discussed many names, and though she had shown little enthusiasm for any, there had been few she had objected to altogether, and this was not one of them.

"It is a good name, my wife," he said, in the quiet but firm tone he used when he wished her to know a subject was not open to debate. "And it sits well with the other. Boromir and Artamir. It has a certain ring to it, does it not?"

"I thought...," she blushed and trailed off. He raised an enquiring eyebrow, surprised she would persist in this course when he had indicated his disapproval. "I thought to call him Faramir."

Now he sat up straighter and turned them both so that they faced each other more fully.

"Faramir?" He could not keep the disbelief and distaste from his voice as his mind leapt back to old tales and he recalled the fate of the last to bear that name. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that one of the maids, busying herself in a corner of the room with some mysterious task involving the repeated folding of linens, had raised her head at the sharpness of his tone. He took a moment to send a glare in her direction and was gratified to see her reapply herself to her task with a guilty start. He hoped he had quelled any thoughts she might have of eavesdropping. Then he turned his gaze back to his wife.

"Faramir," Finduilas repeated. She spoke softly but with surprising firmness.

Denethor found himself frowning as he considered how best to persuade his wife that the name might be a burden to their son. He did not himself believe that to name a child was to seal its fate, but others might see it so. At last he pointed out gently, "It is a name of ill-omen, my love. Faramir of the line of Anárion should have been King. Yet he disobeyed his father and went disguised to war and was slain. Twas at least in part thanks to his foolishness that the line of Kings is ended. Do you truly wish to give your son such a name?"

She lowered her eyes to avoid his gaze. "I had a dream," she murmured.

"A dream?" Again he struggled to keep his voice neutral. The touch of elven-blood that ran in their veins — _or so they liked to think!_ — made all the kin of Dol Amroth fancy every ill-remembered night-thought carried portents or hidden meanings. While old tales often spoke of the foresight of the Edain, Denethor himself did not care much for the vagaries of prophecy: it provided no concrete information to help with the hard choices a ruler must make. Sometimes the idle fancies people misread into such things even made them dangerous. His wife had once or twice mentioned some revelation or other she believed she had been given, but he had not encouraged such talk.

"It came to me the night ere I first knew I was with child and has returned often since," she answered. Her body was now as tense as her voice. "It came again last night."

She spoke so quietly that he had to bend towards her to catch her words. _At least your years in Minas Tirith have taught you to conduct our disagreements with discretion_ , he thought with some gratitude.

Now she whispered, "I stood in a high place in the Citadel and looked out. Ahead of me, the East grew dark, yet the sun still stood in the sky. There were strange, black clouds that raced across the heavens, and seemed to form the shapes of evil things: great foul beasts with claws that reached out towards me. I was afraid. Yet even as I thought they would swoop down and seize me, there came seven swans flying out of the south to drive the cloud-beasts away. They were like the great swans that visit the coast near my home sometimes: for a season or two they come, but we see them only rarely. I saw them once when I was a child, but never since."

Her voice had taken on a drained quality that disturbed her husband. He felt as if she were no longer by his side but standing again in that high place, watching those swans. He knew them also: there were many tapestries hanging on the walls of the great fastness by the sea that showed the long white plumes of their wings and the cruel glitter of their eyes. And he feared them: the princes of Dol Amroth did not take lightly dreams in which the swans of Ulmo came to them. He found he was breathing quickly and shallowly, and pressing his fingers hard into his wife's arms where he held her, but she did not seem to notice. With an effort of will, he relaxed his grip while she continued to her tale.

"The chief of them came to me," she said. "He cried in a great voice, like the rushing of the wind and the breaking of the waves, and there were words in it. And he said: _Hail, Finduilas! Daughter of Dol Amroth. Wife of Gondor. Mother of Anórien and Ithilien. Hear now my words!_ "

Denethor could not help glancing over his shoulder at the crib at those words. Ithilien had long been under the sway of the Dark Lord, though they still kept a foothold there and harried the servants of Mordor and would not — _would never_ — relinquish their claim. Would his sons win it back one day, so that their people might again dwell in peace in its fair vales?

When he looked back at Finduilas, she seemed to have retreated even further from him, falling ever deeper into the memory of her dream. Now she chanted softly:

 _When darkness comes to Gondor's heart  
Thy first will faithful prove  
His grasp is sure, he plays his part,  
Doubt never thou his love!_

 _Thy second walks a broader path  
That strays beyond thy lands.  
In pity quick, and slow to wrath,  
He yet sufficient stands._

As she finished, she seemed to come back to herself. She looked up at Denethor, biting her lower lip. It was a nervous habit that normally bothered her husband, but his concern for what he had just witnessed outweighed his irritation.

"I have thought many hours on it, while I waited for our son to be born, but there is much in it that remains strange to me and which I do not understand," she said. "You are very wise and learned, husband. What do you think it may mean?"

A part of Denethor would rather not think at all on what the words meant. He longed to dismiss them. "Perhaps it is but a garbled fancy," he said, trying to keep his tone light. "Are women not often beset by such strange notions when they are with child?"

"Perhaps. Yet I have never before dreamt of the swans," she answered. "Nor the same dream again and again. And some things are surely clear? Our first is faithful — and so our second must be sufficient. Boromir and Faramir: they do not sound so ill, do they, husband?"

Before Denethor could reply, the door was flung open violently and a small blur of rich velvets and dark hair threw itself across the room, crying, "Let me see! Let me see!"

Denethor was quickly on his feet to catch the bundle of energy, which resolved itself into a boy whose face was just beginning to lose its ill-defined infant curves and set into the features that would so resemble his father's when he was grown. "Steady, my little warrior!" Denethor said, sweeping him up into his arms and laughing.

Behind him, a sudden wail rose from the crib. One of the women lurking in the corner hurried across to deal with the crisis, while a breathless nurse peered nervously around the open door. The sight of Denethor made the colour drain from her face and she bobbed a ragged curtsey. "I'm sorry, my lord," she said, still breathing hard. "He was that excited, I couldn't hold onto him."

"And so he should be," Denethor answered, giving her a cold pale smile. "It is not every day he acquires a little brother."

He turned and stepped over towards the cradle, where the other servant had picked up the baby and was rocking him in one arm. "See, here he is. Boromir, may I present to you your brother—," he hesitated for a fraction of a second, before adding "Faramir."

"He looks funny," Boromir said, leaning forward to squint at the baby. "All red and, and _squashed_."

From the bed, Finduilas laughed. "As did you when you were but a few hours old. But you have not proved so ill-looking, have you?"

Denethor turned and saw that his wife was smiling at them and that she had recovered her colour and her composure. His answering laugh contained as much relief as merriment. He set Boromir down on the bed. "Give your mother a kiss," he said. Feeling the solid limbs wriggling with impatience against his grip, he held onto his son while he admonished, "Gently, now, she is tired."

Finduilas opened her arms and hugged Boromir to her, before she settled him at her side in the place his father had vacated not long before. She ruffled his hair and said softly yet earnestly, "You must always take good care of your little brother. Promise me that."

Denethor could not help wondering if he should read more into her request than a simple desire to remind their older son of his obligations and to attempt to secure brotherly peace in the future. _Does she see more that she does not speak of? Is he marked for some strange fate?_ Then he drove his concerns from his mind. _This is nonsense! Do not we Men shape our fates ourselves? Even if she sees such things, does aught confirm it as true sight or doom it that such things must come to pass._

Despite the doubts raised by his wife's question, he was pleased by his elder son's response to it.

"I promise," Boromir was saying, nodding his head solemnly. "Faramir," he tested out the name carefully, with only a slight lisp.

"Faramir," his mother confirmed.

As Denethor proudly watched the little family tableau, in which there now seemed to him no room to admit a fourth, his wife looked up at him and mouthed the words, "Thank you."

Denethor found he could not return her smile with quite as much enthusiasm as he would have wished. He turned away towards his second son to hide his irritation. He had needed to give some name for the child, and he had not wanted Boromir to know that his parents had been disagreeing on the subject. So it had been easier to concede the point to his wife. _After all, what does a name matter - or a foolish dream?_ He would shape his son as he grew so that men would honour him no matter what name he bore.

Still, it seemed an opportune moment to leave before his cool reception of the name could communicate itself to his wife. "And now I think I will introduce my new son to his grandfather," he said. He beckoned the woman carrying the babe to follow him.

As he crossed the hall on his way to the other side of the house, he stepped around the servants hanging decorations for _mettarë_ : wreaths and garlands of evergreen leaves spotted with red and white berries. Entering the corridor that led to the other wing of the house, he reflected that it was right and proper to mark the season so. At the same time, he resigned himself to another eight days of treading carefully to avoid fallen fruit slimed underfoot.

This time, the presence of the nurse behind him meant he did not pause outside the door but entered without hesitation, even though he knew a far less welcome sight would greet him.

The room was stuffy, a fire roaring up the chimney, the windows shut tight against the winter air. The sweet smell of burning apple-wood did little to mask the pervasive odour of old-man's sweat, over-stewed tisanes, and stale urine. Denethor was careful to breathe through his mouth as he picked his way across the room to where his father took his unquiet rest in the shadows of the sable bed-hangings.

Denethor wondered what mood would take Ecthelion today. _Alas that one of such proud bearing and fine mind should be brought so low._ Still, he did not flinch as he made his bow and took the withered hand that lay on the coverlet.

  
"Father?" he asked tentatively. When he received no reply, he tried again. "My Lord Steward?" He spoke a little more loudly, pronouncing each word carefully and clearly to catch his father's attention.

The old man turned his head at last and fixed his dulled grey eyes on his son.

"Is that you?" he asked querulously. He paused for a gulp of air. "Have you come at last?"

"It is I, Father. Denethor."

Denethor could not miss the look of disappointment that crossed his father's face even as Ecthelion slumped back into the pillows fighting a coughing fit. Ecthelion's esquire hurried over and helped the Steward sit up while the convulsions racked him. Without being asked, Denethor poured a measure from the medicine bottle on the table by the bed and handed it to the younger man.

 _Which of his childhood friends does he think I am this time?_ Denethor wondered. _Or perhaps he sees a comrade-in-arms from one of the battles of his youth. Oh, Father, is not your only son a worthy substitute for their company?_ He swallowed his pain, as he had done several times in the past few weeks, and tried to remember that Ecthelion did not mean to hurt him.

Waiting for his father's breathing to ease, Denethor glanced over at his newborn son. The nurse had her hand curled around the top of his head and held him close to her, a look of dismay on her face. Denethor was not of a mind to rebuke her for her expression: he also did not want his son exposed to any more of this atmosphere than was strictly necessary. Yet he must present grandson to grandfather, future vassal to liege-lord.

As soon as his father settled back on his pillows, Denethor made the announcement. "The House of Húrin has another son," he said, allowing the pride he felt to show clearly in his voice as he stepped back and urged the nurse forward.

Ecthelion barely glanced at the child before muttering, "Good, good," and waving the nurse away. Denethor could not help feeling disappointed that his father should show so little interest in his new grandson, but such behaviour did not surprise him. _It is a wonder he is himself enough to pay even so much attention to the boy_ , he reflected _._ He signalled to the nurse to leave, and she hurried eagerly from the room, her small charge held securely against her shoulder.

He was about to make his own obeisance and depart when his father reached out a thin hand and grasped his wrist with surprising strength. Looking down, Denethor saw Ecthelion's mottled skin was stretched taut over bone and tendon.

Returning his gaze to his father's face, he perceived that Ecthelion was much more alert than he had been when Denethor entered the room: more lucid than son had seen father in days.

"We must talk," Ecthelion wheezed. "There are things I must tell. Before...."

Another lesser coughing fit assailed him. Denethor, sensing his father's words were for his ears alone, took the opportunity to send the servants away and to order the esquire to wait outside the door until such time as his betters had finished speaking, or the Steward had need of more attention than his son could provide. As he fetched a chair, Denethor wondered what secrets remained for his father to reveal. Had he not made his son privy to all his counsels for many years? __

 _What more can there be? And why did he not trust me with this before?_

By the time he had set the chair in place by the bed, Ecthelion's coughs had subsided to an occasional laboured rasp. A dribble of blackened sputum stained the corner of his mouth; Denethor found a cloth and gently wiped it away. He returned the cloth to its bowl and was turning to take his seat when Ecthelion raised a trembling hand and pointed to the cabinet that stood opposite the foot of the bed. "There is a box," he said. "Fetch it."

Denethor found the box quickly. It was made of black _lebethron_ bound and inlaid with mithril, with the tree and crown and stars of the heirs of Elendil set on its lid. He savoured the feel of its slick polished surface, guessing it would open out into a small writing desk. He picked it up and returned to the bed. He placed it into his father's hands, and then took his seat. Ecthelion settled the box on his lap, running his palms over its polished surface lovingly. Denethor was absorbed for a moment in wondering what secrets the box held, before he became aware that he was perched forward on the edge of his seat like a nervous petitioner. He took a deep breath and leaned back, stretching out his legs before him, willing himself to appear relaxed and unconcerned.

"This box contains records," his father told him. "Things the Steward must know." Ecthelion's words came slowly as his breath rattled in his throat. "We hold much in trust... until the King returns. You may read," again he paused and attempted to suck in a large breath, "when I am gone. But I would also speak. Not all wisdom... can be written."

Ecthelion stopped again. Talking pained him, that was clear, but Denethor did not urge silence. _I would spare him this hurt, but these things must be shared. There will be few times more when he knows his own mind, and his once-sharp thoughts grow ever blunter. We of the House of Húrin must suffer, for Gondor's sake._

The Steward reached out and took Denethor's hand once more. "My son." He smiled and gave Denethor's fingers a faint squeeze. "I am proud of you. Not of your strong arm alone. Your cunning mind, too, defends Gondor." Ecthelion's words came in short bursts between gasps for air. "You won back Osgiliath for us. Yet times grow ever more evil. Well you know this. The scouts tell us the Dark Lord is not idle. If I may counsel, now you become Steward: be careful! Do not overreach. Hold what we have. Do not risk losing all. Honour our past, as you make safe our future."

 _Now you become Steward._ Denethor almost missed his father's advice as his heart leapt at those words. _At last it comes to me._

He pulled his attention back to his father's laboured speech.

"Promise me. Keep well the festivals. Honour the Powers in the West," Ecthelion was now saying. "Take your son to the hallow, when he is of age. As I took you. Tend the White Tree. And do not cease to hope. One day a sapling may be found."

Again, Ecthelion's words were interrupted by a coughing fit: less violent than the previous one as the medicine began to do its work, yet still strong enough to rack his frail frame in a way that pained his son to watch. As Denethor helped him to sit up while the convulsion lasted, he wondered why his father felt the need to extract this promise. _Have I not shown myself always to be a dutiful son of Gondor? Why do you now doubt that I would keep faith and honour? Do I not serve as best I may? Ah, but I do not serve as well as another in your eyes, do I?_

He tasted metal in his mouth and felt the sting of a fresh wound. He found he had drawn blood as he unconsciously chewed the inside of his cheek. He made a deliberate effort to let the tension in his muscles flow away from him and took particular care to be gentle when he laid his father back against the pillows. He stroked Ecthelion's brow while the old man shuddered in his struggle to calmly draw breath once more.

At last, the dying Steward was able to speak, his words finally coming more easily. "Make sure the King's House, and all things in the kingdom, are ready always for the king's return," he ordered.

"Of course, Father," Denethor answered, bowing his head for a moment, proud that he was able to mask the still unconquered irritation his father's doubts had raised in him. "I promise I will discharge my office faithfully."

 _Though these are for the most part empty rituals. Where is one who will claim the Kingship now? Near a thousand years have passed and none have come forth. Yet the people take comfort from these things. And am I not wise enough to know that a craftsman does not disregard a useful tool simply because it does not sit easily in his hand at first? In time he learns to wield it with such skill as he may._

"Perhaps it is you who will see that happy day." Ecthelion's voice had dropped low and thoughtful, his face clouded with regret "I hoped it might come in my time. There was one...." His voice trailed away.

Denethor felt himself stiffen again. He knew well enough where his father had bestowed so much of his love, love that should have been given to his son. His rival might have departed towards the Mountains of Shadow and the dangers of the Dark Land, but who could guess where he wandered now, if he still lived. _No doubt still meddling in the politics of realms that do not belong to him_ , Denethor thought sourly.

Ecthelion was silent for a long time, save for the harsh wheezing of his breath, and his head drooped onto his chest. Denethor wondered if his father's moment of clarity was over and he would speak no more, or whether he had fallen asleep altogether. He was about to withdraw his hand from where his father now held it loosely, when Ecthelion roused himself.

"No matter," he said. "My time is nearly past and yours approaches." Again he coughed, but more easily. This time, Denethor offered him water, and he took a sip before he waved the glass away.

"You will find in the box prophecies from years gone past that speak of the days darkening," he continued, his words becoming more fluent as body and mind were in accord for once. "Yet they speak also of one who will come from the North who might make the claim. And the days grow dark indeed. Keep well the kingdom and prepare it for his return."

"From the North?" Denethor said. Again, he felt himself stiffen. Thorongil had come from the North: from Rohan. Yet he was not of the Rohirrim: the discreet enquiries Denethor had occasionally been able to make amongst the Riders of the Riddermark had uncovered no more than that Thorongil had arrived at Edoras with horse and sword - and no past that he spoke of. Despite that, it was clear from his looks that the blood of Númenor ran on his veins. _Still, the ragged remnants of our Northern kin have no claim here in Gondor. Even if he owns some blood of the kin of Isildur, it matters naught._

"So the seer's words say," Ecthelion confirmed. "But do not hand over our trust lightly. One may come claiming the lineage of Elendil and he may have tokens of that house. He may even have the healing hands of the King that old legends speak of. Yet there is another sign known to none but the Stewards. I was taught it by my father, and he by his, and he by his before him, back through the long years. By this may we be sure in our choices. It is prophesised that the True King shall come bearing an elf-jewel, and his name shall be that of the stone: Elessar he shall be called. Our Northern kin know not of this."

 _Prophecies!_ Denethor thought. _Always prophecies! Why must I suffer this nonsense?_ He found his voice growing cold as he reminded his father of the choices of the past. "Did not Pelendur and the council make a clear ruling that the heirs of Isildur have no claim here in Gondor? And surely such tales as we have tell us that the Northern line has perished also."

Ecthelion shook his head and tried to lift himself a little higher on the pillows. Denethor saw the spasm of pain that crossed his face as he moved. _Is there no relief the healers can give?_ Again, he leaned forward to help ease his father into a more comfortable position and arrange the pillows behind him. His hands were gentle even though anger was coursing through him at this foolish talk of Kings and Northern kin.

"So rumour makes it, but the Steward of Gondor does not rely on whispers in the wind," Ecthelion answered him once he had settled again. "We speak still with those that remain in the North, through Master Elrond of _Imladris_ , the elven refuge near the _Hithaeglir_. Around _loëndë_ each year, await the coming of the wine merchant from Dorwinion and make sure you do not leave the sampling of his wares to the Master of the Butteries. For one of his men will make himself known to you. He will bear a token of our Northern kin, and a letter from Master Elrond, and will carry your reply."

Denethor had always wondered at his father's desire to meet with the wine merchant in person, and at his insistence that Denethor accompany him if he was in the White City. Now he berated himself that he had never been observant enough to catch the transactions between his father and this mysterious messenger. Clearly the scheme was ingenious — but Denethor's fascination with the mechanics of intelligence gathering did not obscure his annoyance that his father felt it was worth retaining dealings with a people who had dwindled so. _Without the help of the elves_ , he wondered, _would the pitiful handful of Isildur's people even be able to put roofs over their heads and food in their bellies?_

Ecthelion's tone had turned reflective again as he murmured, "Ah, things are not so simple as they were, when the seeing stones meant news could travel swifter than a bird's flight."

 _Seeing stones?_ From the depths of Denethor's memory, a verse of old lore surfaced: _Seven stars and seven stones and one white tree.'_ In his mind's eye, he pictured a cracked and faded scroll, idly perused one hot summer afternoon when he had been a young man.

"The _palantíri_?" His voice was sharp with surprise. "Why do you speak of them? They were lost, long ago."

"Nay, my son. They were not all lost." Denethor arched his eyebrows. _This is news indeed!_ He waited for his father to tell him more, but Ecthelion paused and blindly stretched out a hand sideways to fumble for a handkerchief from amongst the debris on the bedside table. Denethor passed the square of material to him, noticing his father's personal keys and the Steward's white rod lay hard-pressed between the medicine bottles and the water jug. _They must be as much a part of him after so many years as the hand that holds them_ , Denethor realised. When he turned back to look at his father, he saw Ecthelion was examining the dark mucus he had coughed into the cloth. His father looked up and caught Denethor's gaze.

"Father—." Denethor forgot his irritation in his desire to offer comfort in the face of such visible signs of impending death, but the older man raised a hand to forestall him, intent only on sharing the knowledge that must be passed along.

"The _palantíri_?" He echoed Denethor's question. "Those of the North lie drowned, tis true, and the stone of Osgiliath was lost in the kinstrife long years ago. Yet they are not all destroyed. It is a thousand years since the accursed forces of the Dark Lord plundered Isildur's fair city, and who knows in what place now lies the stone of Ithil, for no account came of its fate. Yet we must fear that it is in the hands of the Enemy.

"But the stone of Anor rests still in the Tower of Ecthelion. I remember once, when you were a child, you asked what lay in the highest chamber, always locked, and I would not speak of it."

Denethor remembered it too. He had been a mere boy, but he had felt there would always be secrets beyond his grasp and places that were denied to him. Now they were all to be laid open to his gaze — but his former impatience for this knowledge was now tempered by the recent reminder of the cost at which it was being bought.

Ecthelion went on, "Therein lies our perilous charge. We might see much, but we dare not look: none has done so for many years."

 _Yes, we might see much. To know the movements of our enemies far beyond where our scouts can travel and many days before they reach our lands. And how I will need that knowledge in the years to come.... Yet Father is right: it is too perilous. Still, I would wish to look upon the stone. Is it not said that Elven craftsmen from the furthest West - Fëanor himself perhaps? - may have wrought them?_

Denethor's musings were broken by his father clutching at his hand again. "Take the box," he urged, pushing it feebly towards Denethor, "and summon the Council, that they may stand witness as you come into your power." Ecthelion motioned towards the white rod of office lying on the table next to the bed.

"I will gather them, Father," Denethor answered. He tried to keep the emotion out of his voice. Until this last occasion, his father's sickness had been mere inconvenience and a malady of the body. This was different and both father and son knew it: while the flesh once more suffered, it was the mind that had of a sudden been overthrown. Ecthelion had been himself only at rare moments these past weeks. In between, he had lingered and clung to life in a manner unfitting for one of such great lineage. It had neither been pleasant for the son to watch nor — Denethor had divined at times — agreeable for the father to endure in those rare moments when he knew what had befallen him. It would perhaps have been less grief for both for this day to have come earlier. Yet Denethor also knew well what it meant to his father that he should renounce the symbols of his office.

Denethor watched Ecthelion sink back against the pillows and close his eyes. He was clearly worn out with the effort of speaking. Yet Denethor still sat, the box in his hands, reluctant to hurry away when they had shared this rare communion, hoping his father might speak again of other, lighter matters. After a while, he realised Ecthelion's breathing had become deep and regular: his father had fallen asleep, and there would be no more loving words exchanged at this time. He rose quietly, leaned over and gently kissed the papery skin on his father's brow.

Taking the box with him, he went to the door and called the servants back in. The esquire he despatched to summon those of the Council who could be re-assembled by the first hour of the night. When the boy had departed on his errand, Denethor stood for a moment, irresolute, wondering how he should pass the next two hours.

There were many matters on his desk to attend to. Or it would be pleasant to lay duty aside for a while: none would begrudge that he spend a little time with his wife and sons. He savoured the last word in his mind. Yet he felt the fascination of both scholar and ruler as he hefted the weight of the box he held. Much mighty lore must surely be contained within its dark heart.

More brightly still burnt the knowledge of the contents of that locked high room across the courtyard.

 _A palantír!_

The papers in the box would surely take many hours to digest properly, whereas to glimpse such a wonder would be a matter of minutes. Then he could spend an hour with his family before it was time for Boromir to sleep.

He fingered the keys he had carried at his own belt for the past month. He knew the use of each of them; the one that would unlock that chamber of secrets was not amongst them. Yet he guessed where it must lie.

This time, he felt no desire to hesitate as he entered his father's room. He ignored the surprised glances from the servants who turned to see who had entered and strode over to the bedside table to pick up the metal bundle that he had noticed earlier. He clutched it tightly in his hand, making sure he did not betray his excitement by jangling it, as he hurried back to the hall. Near the top of the stairs, he noticed that the first of the berries had already fallen from the wreaths and he took care to step around them.

The wind chilled him as he crossed the courtyard — he had been too impatient to stop and don a cloak — but he was soon warmed by the effort of briskly climbing the two hundred and more steps of the White Tower. Despite his haste, he had time to ponder that it was easy enough for one who kept as fit as the Steward's son to climb these tight curves, yet there were other stairs which all the strength of muscle and sinew would not avail him to ascend.

He reached the door. The white tree and the crown and the seven stars that were cast in faint relief on the polished metal surface scattered the light falling from the window behind him. Denethor was so used to seeing the design everywhere he looked that he scarcely noticed it as he sorted through the keys, trying first one and then another, until a third did the trick. Eagerly, he pushed open the door.

The room on the other side occupied almost the whole of the narrowing top of the tower. Windows looked east and south, while the north wall, behind which the staircase climbed onwards to the roof, echoed its opposite partner with a recess containing a stone bench. Turning to close the door behind him, Denethor saw that it too was set within mouldings that matched those around the other openings.

Yet it was the only other item in the cold, stark room that claimed his full attention. He stepped sideways to set the box he still carried on the bench, before he turned to examine the slender pedestal on which sat a cold, black sphere. No, not a sphere: as Denethor bent to view it more closely, he saw that it was made up of many small metal platelets, with fine hinges between them. There was a keyhole near the top. He guessed the contraption must somehow unfold to reveal its contents.

He reached out a tentative finger and traced round the keyhole before he looked at the keys he still held in his other hand. There were two small ones that might fit the narrow opening. Breathless, he tried the first and found it was a little too large. The second was too small and disappeared almost entirely inside the keyhole. It caught on the mechanism inside as he tried to pull it out. He was forced to take a few moments to steady his hands before he could withdraw it. Once the key was free, he looked again in frustration at the bunch. Nothing else would suit.

He moved around the pedestal, running his fingers under the slight overhang at the top, checking that it concealed no secrets. _Where else?_ He glanced around the room, contemplating the architraves set into the plain stone walls, whose large blocks were shaped and mortared together with skill. Then he shook his head. The room was spotless, which must mean servants were admitted to clean it: some of the most trusted in the Citadel, he guessed. He wondered at what hour or on what day they came and if he need fear discovery. Then he dismissed his doubts. _I am to be Steward in a few hours. Who would dare question my right to enter here?_ Still, their occasional presence meant the key would not be hidden here. It must lie amongst his father's effects somewhere in the tower below.

Making sure to carefully lock the door behind him, Denethor hurried down the stairs to the Steward's offices above the Tower Hall. In the outer room he was delayed by a clerk waving some papers for him to sign. He glanced rapidly through two of the documents before appending his mark. _Denethor, Acting Steward._ Soon, he thought, that weasel word insinuating itself between name and title would no longer be required.

As he scanned the third document, he heard a bell ringing. _Was it the twelfth hour already?_ This order required more careful examination than the others, yet he did not have the time and patience to deal with it now. He returned it to the clerk with instructions that it should be sent to the Steward's House.

At last Denethor was able to leave the outer office behind. He knew the contents of that room all too well from the many weeks he had laboured there since his father first fell ill, and the key to the _palantír_ case was not amongst them. It must surely lie somewhere in the Steward's private chamber, unused during Ecthelion's absence save for the occasional meeting.

Denethor felt like a thief as he entered the room alone, moving through the gloom that seemed to flow out from faded ancient tapestries and worn dark velvet upholstery. He had not asked for a lamp to be kindled and brought: while it would no doubt aid his search, his request would draw too much attention to his presence.

He began with the desk. The top held only an inkstand and paper. In the right-hand drawer, he came across a small painting of his mother that he had not seen for years, and a bundle of letters in her strong flowing script that seemed to date from his parents' courtship. He knew from the maidservants that his father had often, as he wandered in his delusions, mistaken them for his wife, dead these past twenty years. _Perhaps he would once more wish to read her letters, so long treasured, and look upon her image again?_ Yet he could not offer them without revealing his current crime. Reluctantly, he laid them to one side on top of the desk.

The left-hand drawer held four curls of dark hair, three bound by thin ribbons that were now shadows of the colour of the tie that held the fourth. Under the hair lay some faded childish pictures: they showed horses, towers, mountains: always backdrops to a family with father, mother, two daughters and a son. They touched off distant memories in his mind of wet winter afternoons lying before the fire, letting his imagination rove as freely as his coloured inks. Now his pen was confined to documents of state and his imagination to plotting strategies and counter-strikes. _No longer time to go where I would but only where I must_ , he thought unhappily. He felt surprise, also, that his stern father should harbour such sentimental keepsakes in his desk. Yet such late-gained knowledge did nothing to resolve his search. Again, he moved swiftly on, lifting the paintings out and adding them to the growing pile of discarded items.

There was nothing else.

With mounting frustration, he pushed his hand deep into first the left-hand and then the right-hand drawer and felt carefully around the edges. Still nothing. Replacing everything carefully just as he had found it, he sighed.

He turned back to the rest of the room and let his gaze drift over the deep chairs with their plump cushions, the small table that held refreshments when his father spoke with honoured counsellors or weary captains, the brazier that sat empty to one side. There were no secrets here. The unlit brazier reminded him how cold it was and he shivered as he turned his attention to the bookcases. Could the key be concealed somewhere between the pages of the many volumes his father had collected? If so, it would take him hours of searching to find it. He crossed the room and idly plucked out the nearest tome: a history of the voyages of Tar-Aldarion. He flicked through it, and then put it back. Such a search would be nearly hopeless in the time available to him.

 _Where next, then?_ He ran a finger over the polished cherry wood of his mother's workbox, which had sat for many years on the shelves, unopened yet carefully tended by the servants. Perhaps the key was in the box.

The words echoed in his mind and he saw another box in his mind's eye. _What a fool you are!_ he thought angrily. Turning on his heel, he strode out of the chamber and headed once more for the stairs upwards.

Again the climb warmed him. By the time he reached the topmost chamber and fumbled for the right key, he felt sweat plastering his undershirt to his back. This time, he locked the door behind him before he crossed to the seat.

He sat down and pulled the box towards him. Holding the ring of keys in one hand, he sorted through them, looking for something of a suitable size and shape. Most were clearly too large; and even many of the smaller ones could not penetrate the keyhole when he tried them. As he considered each key in turn, he found himself distracted by trying to decide which cabinets and caskets they might give access to in his father's chambers. _And what further mysteries remain to be uncovered?_ His fingers reached the smallest key, almost missed between two larger ones, and he felt a surge of triumph that made the blood beat in his ears. The small, troublesome one that had so nearly jammed the lock of the _palantír_ case would surely now prove its worth.

His breathing shallow and hurried, he inserted the key into the lock, turned it and heard the satisfactory clicking of tumblers. _At last!_ Lifting the lid, he found a tray of compartments with snugly fitting covers that could hold ink and pens and other small items. Learning from his previous mistake, he methodically worked his way through them until he revealed a key.

Even as he grasped it in his hand, the clear light flooding the room dimmed as, out of sight, the last edge of the sun slipped behind the mountains to the west. Denethor realised, with a small, cold trickle of horror, that he was supposed to be on the far side of the Court of the Fountain in less than ten minutes. Hastily, he replaced the key and relocked the box, leaving it on the seat before he once more unlocked and relocked the door to the chamber.

As fast as dignity would allow, he made his way back down the stairs and across the courtyard, waving away another clerk who would speak to him. He only slowed his steps as he reached the corridor. Drawing himself up outside the door, he tried to calm his breathing before he threw open the door and made his entrance. Alongside the squire and a single servant, a dozen councillors lined the stuffy room, some talking quietly but most silent, waiting. Denethor cast his gaze around the chamber and acknowledged each in turn as he approached the bed.

The sight of his father-in-law, Adrahil, gave him an unpleasant twinge of guilt as he realised he had not presented his new son to the boy's other grandfather, nor shared his name. _It would be a foolish Steward who begins his reign by giving offence to the Prince of Dol Amroth! And I know Adrahil will take more pleasure from it than my own father did. He dotes upon Boromir. Yet this is not the time to raise the matter._

He continued towards the bed. When he reached it, he saw his father seemed to be sleeping still, his face smoothed and peaceful. Denethor was reluctant to wake him. Yet it must be done. He leant over to gently touch the departing steward's shoulder and call his name. The light hand was enough to disturb Ecthelion's shallow dreams and he opened his eyes.

Denethor was dismayed to see only the now-too-familiar confusion in them. _Again? Why now? Oh Father, can you not have one more lucid moment before the end? For the sake of Gondor, if not my own? Is there not some way to persuade your poor mind to focus on what passes now?_

"Yes, Adrahil," Ecthelion muttered. "I know we have need of more ships, but we do not have the men to spare to build them or to crew them once they are built." His gaze wandered around the room. "Can none of my captains suggest another course to stem the thread of Umbar?"

"Father?" He increased the pressure on Ecthelion's shoulder a little. His reward was to have that pale grey scrutiny turned upon him and to see some recognition awake in his father's gaze. Yet he did not hold out much hope that his father had left the past behind. Ecthelion's next words confirmed his fears.

"Yes, my son? You have a plan for Umbar?"

Denethor pressed his lips together for a moment as frustration and grief warred within him. At the very least, he decided, he could lift this imagined worry from his father's mind. "Be at peace, father. Umbar is no more threat to us."

A frown crossed Ecthelion's face. "Nay, how can you speak so? Their pirates plunder our merchantmen and harry our coasts. They must be dealt with."

"Father, it is done." Denethor paused and took care when he spoke again to keep his voice neutral. "Captain Thorongil has burned their fleet."

"Ah, Thorongil." Ecthelion reached out a weak hand to touch Denethor's face but the effort was too much and he let it fall back on to the covers. "You were always bold and cunning. I can always trust in you to serve Gondor well." Speaking seemed to have exhausted him and he turned his head sideways and closed his eyes.

Denethor was glad that the hurt in his heart and on his face was hidden from all in the room save the one who no longer understood what pain he caused. He stayed bent for a moment, until he had mastered his expression. Then he let go of his father's shoulder and straightened. He looked around the room at the lords and captains. A few seemed pitying, others embarrassed. None met his eyes willingly.

 _Will they always be so craven?_ he wondered. _Will they not face what must be endured? How will I rule Gondor if her captains shy away from hard truths? This will be the least of the trials that we must face. I will not endure such weakness when I am Steward._

He drew himself up and addressed them as if they sat in the Council chamber. In defiance of their discomfort, he did not use soft words. "As you see, my lords, the Lord Steward is not in his right mind. We cannot know when he will be so again. He spoke to me this afternoon of his intention that I should take up his rod and office at this hour. Do you wish to wait here until he is himself again and can confirm his words? That may be many days. Or never."

He held himself stiffly against the pain that assaulted him with those words. The need to undertake the necessary ceremonies seemed less important in that moment than his own need to say farewell to his father before the end. _Yet for your sake, it would be better if there were no more chance to speak those words._

The moment passed and he returned his attention to the men who lined the walls of the room. Silence stretched out, save for the occasional chink of metal or whisper of leather and cloth as the men shifted uneasily, trying to gauge the mood of the others before they spoke. The pause lengthened, but Denethor waited, unmoving, until at last his father-in-law Adrahil stepped forward. "Lord Denethor, in you we trust. You are your father's son. Take now your office, for the good of Gondor and in recognition of your own worth."

Adrahil stepped around Denethor and picked up the white rod from where it still lay between the pills and potions and turned back with it. He bowed and presented it to Denethor. "My Lord Steward."

Denethor reached out slowly and took the rod, running his hands over the smooth warmth of the ancient ivory. He felt a flush of heat rise up inside him. _Ah, my beloved Gondor, at last I may serve you to the fullest, sparing naught to make you safe and strong, beautiful and blessed._ He felt his hands shaking and he strove to hold them still as he turned to face the rest of the lords and captains. He swallowed the lump that had grown in his throat and found his voice to speak the words he had long known but never used: "Here do I swear to hold rod and rule in the name of the king, until he shall return, to defend and deliver Gondor from all who would threaten her, to uphold her laws and her customs, and to preserve and maintain her in trust for those who follow after, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Denethor, son of Ecthelion."

His voice was strong and clear in his own ears. _This must be how Elendil felt when he stepped onto the shores of Middle-Earth: 'Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth I am come. In this place will I abide, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world.'_ A shiver of pure joy ran through him as he completed the oath.

Without further hesitation, the Prince of Dol Amroth now knelt before him. "Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor," Adrahil said, "and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, to speak and to be silent...."

As the familiar words of the oath rolled out of the mouth of the second most powerful noble in the Kingdom, Denethor felt tears pricking at his eyes. Growing up, Denethor had greatly admired the dashing son of Dol Amroth, fourteen years his senior: a brave warrior with wit and charm. As a young soldier, he had striven to emulate Adrahil's leadership by land and sea; and he had valued the Prince's advice once he became Captain-General himself. He had always felt a little gratitude, too, that Adrahil was one of the few lords who remembered old ties and never seemed to place that usurper Thorongil higher in his estimation than the Steward's son. To receive fealty from him was to gain more honour than the mere title of Steward could bestow.

"...to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Adrahil son of Angelimir, Prince of Dol Amroth." Adrahil completed the oath.

Denethor placed one hand on Adrahil's bowed head and spoke steadily. "And this do I hear, Denethor son of Ecthelion, Lord of Gondor, Steward of the High King, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valour with honour, oath-breaking with vengeance."

He stooped and kissed Adrahil on the forehead, then raised him to his feet and embraced him warmly.

Quickly now the other councillors came to swear their allegiance. _If there were not strict precedence_ , Denethor thought with bitter amusement, _I believe they would now be jostling each other in their eagerness to be first to prove their loyalty._ As each swore the oath, Denethor evaluated their strengths and weaknesses, and stored away in his memory their behaviour in those long minutes before Adrahil had offered him his birthright.

When they were done, Denethor dismissed them, holding back only Húrin of the Keys and Adrahil. To Húrin he gave orders for the councillors who had not gathered that evening to assemble with the others in the Tower Hall on the morrow to witness Denethor reaffirming his oath publicly and to swear their own. When Húrin had departed, he turned to Adrahil and the second pleasure of this momentous day.

"Prince, I have been remiss. Your pardon that I have shared only the barest news of the safe arrival of your new grandson with you ere now and not my joy." Denethor found somewhat to his surprise that he was smiling at the mere thought of the babe, and of Finduilas passed safe through her confinement. "I confess I was too eager to see my wife and child to wait upon your conversation with Lord Forlong after the Council."

"Aye, waiting for Forlong to finish would have been too sore a trial for any new father to endure." Adrahil chuckled, crinkling his eyes in amusement for a moment, before he stilled himself and glanced over at the bed, obviously remembering where he was. Denethor tried to appear suitably appreciative of Adrahil's jest, while reluctant to give the servants in the room a chance to gossip that the new Steward was sharing a joke at Forlong's expense. _Better to offend the Lord of Lossarnach than the Prince of Dol Amroth, but better still to offend neither,_ he thought crossly. _Does Adrahil do this deliberately to trouble me?_

"Have you settled on a name at last?" Adrahil was asking.

Denethor nodded. "We are to call him Faramir." He still could not speak the name with full approval, although he supposed he would soon grow accustomed to it. "I am sure your daughter would welcome a visit from you and a chance to show you our son."

"And I would welcome it also. This is a joy indeed amidst our present sorrow," Adrahil answered. He gave Denethor's arm a sympathetic squeeze and glanced towards the bed. "But will you not join us?"

Denethor tried not to tense at Adrahil's gesture. He did not desire the other man's pity. "Nay," he said, attempting a smile. "I am sure it would please my wife to spend a little time alone with her father, and other duties call me." _No, not other duties_ , he corrected himself. His desk would be laden with ordered piles of papers that required his attention in the next few days, yet it was not decrees and policies that tempted him. His mind had, almost against his will, slipped yet again to the high chamber and what was held within it. Always now the image of that dark sphere seemed to hover behind his thoughts, no matter how he tried to focus on other matters. He knew he would accomplish little else until he had satisfied his curiosity. _And what harm can come of it, if I turn thither now rather than in an hour or a day? Surely it will be better to eliminate this distraction and face these other tasks — and my joy in my new son — with a clear mind?_

The Prince nodded his agreement and left. Denethor turned back to his father. This time, he sat on the edge of the bed. Transferring the white rod to his other hand, he reached out and stroked his father's face. Despite the harshness of his breaths, Ecthelion seemed at peace at last. A part of Denethor, too, felt soothed that his father's suffering might now be over if he did not have another chance to understand the terrible, slow decline that was creeping over him. Yet another part of him railed against this fate and longed to return to the days of his own youth and his father's prime.

Was that not a gift of the seeing stones, to recapture the past as well as lend distance to the present eye? To view such scenes would be as precious as any intelligence he might gather. Yet the stone was fraught with danger, his father had made that clear; he could not risk attempting a glimpse of the visions the stone could offer, even to seek such treasure. _Still, it will do no harm to look upon this wonder._ Boromir's bedtime was past, while his wife would be occupied with her father. He should allow them that time alone together. And now he had found the key, it would be but the work of a moment to steal a sight of the stone itself.

He felt some regret that he had not chosen to spend the hours he could with his new son, but a Ruling Steward and his family must make such sacrifices. Did he not know it all too well himself?

He lovingly touched his father's face one last time, then rose and left the chamber.

Hurrying back into the hall, he saw the _mettarë_ garlands now gleamed darkly, reflecting the yellow glimmer from the oil lamps that lit the passage and hall. The red berries glowed like bright embers. He wondered if he should ask the Master of Ceremonies to remove them all out of respect to his father. Distracted by the thought, he failed to notice and step around a scattering of fallen fruit, and his foot skidded from underneath him.

The cold of the iron banister burnt like a brand as he reached out a hand to steady himself.

He examined the red pulp smeared across the sole of his boot with disgust. Still, the mishap could not dampen the sudden lifting of his mood that had come from negotiating his way through the warring net of duties and desires that had enmeshed him for the past few hours to see his path clear before him at last. Scraping his boot clean on the iron banister, he merely resolved to watch more carefully for hazards.

Night had fallen fully when he reached the door, and he commandeered a lantern from the porter. It cast a small glow that lit only a pace or two ahead as he crossed the familiar stones of the courtyard and climbed the tower stairs for a third time.

His hands were steady and sure now as he selected the right keys to work his way through the wards that secured both door and box and recover the key to the _palantír_ case. His wavering shadow ran out before him as he left the lantern sitting on the bench, crossed over to the pedestal and pushed the key into the lock. He turned it slowly, hearing the faint clicks inside as the tumblers slid back, and the topmost plate yielded to the gentle tug he gave to the shaft of the key. Slowly and carefully he stripped back the cover, length by length, until it hung over the edges of the plinth, revealing the dark crystal heart inside. He breathed deeply as he admired its flawless, glassy surface. Then his hand, resting on the edge of the plinth, tightened as he thought he caught a flicker of movement. _Surely it was just the reflection of the flame of the lantern bending in the draught? Yet maybe not._ He licked his lips nervously and leant a little closer.

**Author's Note:**

> The first hour of the night is sunset. I have assumed that Gondor follows a system of dividing daylight into twelve hours and night into twelve hours. At the time of year this story is set, daylight hours will be shorter than 60 minutes. Thanks to Marta for helping me work out the timings. Thanks also to Altariel for pointing out how rare male children were in the Steward's line and how pleased Denethor would be to have a second son; to Starlight and others who suggested ideas for "Stewards Traditions" and how to recognise the King Returned; and to Gwynnyd for her insights into what it feels like to give and receive fealty. Gwynnyd also helped develop the oath Denethor swears, which is based on the snippet provided in Appendix A that the stewards swore an oath "to hold rod and rule in the name of the king, until he shall return".
> 
>  _Hithaeglir_ = Misty Mountains  
>  _Mettarë_ = midwinter festival  
>  _Loëndë_ = midsummer festival


End file.
